Deduce It
by possessmemore
Summary: John burned his tongue. The hot tea had found his lips by automatism as the good doctor watched Sherlock's face intently and strained his ears trying not to miss a single syllable of his inner monologue.


Forgiveness was something that John rarely achieved. And in some cases he never did. It was just unbearable to play the loving husband while you fought the urge to run away and never look back. Or worse…. If you are accustomed to violence, not using it can be hard. Especially if you are very, very angry.

The good thing was that his anger stood in no contrast to the part he had to play. It was his right to be angry with Mary and forgiving was expected to be difficult for him. It was trying enough for him to play his part at times, though. But he had agreed to do so until the Holmes brothers had found a solution for this whole dreadful business. And found out how big the bigger picture really was.

The only feeling stronger than his frustration was longing. A deep and intense longing.

* * *

"Two days, Sherlock!" John gave him a fond look while attempting to be angry. "Did you even eat anything?" The detective wasn't quite sure but nodded nonetheless.

"Biscuits. I think."

"You think?" John arched an eyebrow at that. A gesture closer to Sherlock's usual demeanor than John's. It made the consulting detective squirm uncomfortably.

"Didn't look." He said with a dismissive flick of his hand.

"Nice try." The doctor leant back in his armchair. "We both know that you can't stay here forever, right?" He waited for Sherlock to acknowledge the truth with a slight indication of his head.

"So? Why are you hiding in here? Not that I don't enjoy your presence…" Sherlock liked seeing John's face as open and attentive as it was right now. Liked the fact that he didn't have to lie to John.

"It's… difficult. He is. And I am when he's around." He let his gaze wander over John's soft expression. "I need to figure out how to… detach. I just can't do it when he's around. It's hard to concentrate when he is…."

"Do you even want to? Detach, I mean." The doctor enquired curiously.

"It's not about what I want. It's about what needs to be done." He couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice.

"Are you sure that that there is a difference?" John asked with a smirk.

"Shouldn't you know the answer to that?" Sherlock drawled in annoyance.

"I think you are forgetting that I can't know if you don't. Oh, come on. Don't look at me like that!" John got up and crossed the distance between them in three steps. Kneeling down, he put one hand on Sherlock's knee and looked into the Consulting Detective's frustrated face.

"What do you _think_?" There was mischief written in the corners of John's eyes. Sherlock tried to gather as much data from his expression as possible.

"It's not as if I could risk being wrong in this case." He said dryly.

"You've risked both our lives many times without knowing if you're right." There was no anger or accusation in John's voice so Sherlock only held his gaze. "You know him better than anybody else, right?" Sherlock nodded cautiously. "Well…?" The expectant expression was familiar on the Doctor's face.

"Well what?" The consulting detective felt strangely out of his depth.

"Deduce it!" John prompted amused before he pushed himself up using both hands on Sherlock's knees. "I'll be here if you need me."

He was right. Sherlock had been hiding. But that wasn't the only reason he had stayed for two consecutive days. Fortunately, he didn't have to explain his reasons. John knew what he knew.

Outside, a hansom cab was noisily passing by as the doctor returned to his chair and waited for Sherlock to begin.

"I don't think that was very clever." John said around a mouthful of Rigatoni. "Quite unmistakable, though."

Sherlock looked disgruntled at the half empty plate on John's side of the table. "I didn't know you. And it is really not my area. This right here just serves to prove that." He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "What would have been the right thing to say?"

"Talking to someone you barely knew 24 hours? Everything before ' _John, um ... I think you should know that…'_ ." John sounded startlingly like Sherlock all those years ago before he returned to his usual persona by grinning cheerfully. "But I wasn't angry at you. Merely disappointed."

"I was never sure if you were." Sherlock took a moment to think about the implications of John's statement while Angelo's slowly began to dissolve around them.

Re-experiencing his biggest failures was a rather painful and unnecessary idea, Sherlock decided.

Patiently, John watched as he was choosing a new course of action. Naturally, he did. His eyes on Sherlock, the crackling sound of kindling in the fireplace and Mrs. Hudson rummaging around in her kitchen downstairs helped the consulting detective to choose following through with his deductions.

But not by evaluating old data. No use for that.

"Tell me, John…" Opening his eyes, Sherlock concentrated on the doctor's expressive face. "Why did you decide to move in with me?"

"Money, of course. The excitement of our shared work. Also being grateful for you healing my intermittent tremor. I enjoyed spending time with you even though I wouldn't be able to say why."

"And after I died…"

"I did, too. Well, that part of me anyway. I still wanted to be with you. I wanted back what Moriarty had taken from me. From us." John displayed a variety of emotions of which Sherlock was able to identify most. None of them was helping him focus on the matter at hand. There were deep lines around the doctor's eyes and his jaw was set in determination. Sherlock's determination.

"Because it's always the two of us, isn't it?" Sherlock said smiling uncertainly.

"Yes, of course. No question there. But it was you who excluded me. How many times did you run off into danger leaving me to worry or even oblivious to what you were doing?" John stared at his own hands that were lying unmoving on his thighs.

"Too often." Sherlock conceded. "Will you… Will he ever forgive me? Everything, I mean. Bart's?"

"I don't know… He's still there, though. Every time you need him. Shouldn't that tell you enough?"

* * *

John hadn't exactly planned to visit Sherlock. A rather frustrating combination of a strange woman in his bed (who called herself his wife) and a strong homesickness for 221b had had him practically fleeing from his flat and wandering the streets at 6 a.m. on a Sunday.

Not as aimlessly moving as he wanted to make himself believe, he found himself mechanically unlocking the door to his old life. Minding the time, John tried to take the stairs as quiet as possible as not to wake Mrs. Hudson. He sighed in relaxation when he heard Sherlock muttering through the door to the parlour. He enjoyed the times when Sherlock didn't notice his presence and just kept on rummaging through his mind palace. Somehow, it felt like home to John. With the convenience of avoiding a cutting remark about his relationship status.

There was no need to remain silent when Sherlock was so deep in his head that it made him talk out loud. Relaxing further, John hung his jacket over a kitchen chair and put the kettle on.

* * *

"There! You are doing it again!" Sherlock accused, pointing his finger.

"What?" John asked with a slight smile.

"Licking! You are… licking your lips." Sherlock stated awkwardly.

"Am I now? And, statistically speaking, how often do I do that around you?" John looked at him expectantly.

The surrounding world fell silent while Sherlock concentrated on making an educated guess.

"Approximately three times per hour when we are alone. Once every two hours when we are not or in some way busy. Every 4 minutes when we are alone in a cab."

John tilted his head to the side and cocked an eyebrow. "So…?"

John burned his tongue. The hot tea had found his lips by automatism as the good doctor watched Sherlock's face intently and strained his ears trying not to miss a single syllable of his inner monologue.

John knelt in front of him placing one hand on Sherlock's left thigh. "How come I am the only person you can't read properly?" He whispered as if there was a need for confidentiality.

"You are not the only one. The Woman was difficult to read, as well." John's face did something strange then as the hand vanished from his thigh and the doctor was back in his chair, a small pocketwatch dangling from his hand.

"I…." Sherlock stammered, creasing his brows in irritation.

"What do you see?" John inquired calmly.

"Anger…. Disappointment? "

…

"Jealousy?" Sherlock's voice was laced with uncertainty.

"Got it in three."

"I could be wrong, though." Sherlock said, frustrated acknowledging the current situation.

"You are afraid." John's voice was firm.

"Of course I am afraid! If I wasn't we wouldn't be having this conversation." He shouted in exasperation.

"You mean, you wouldn't have to talk to yourself for two days in a row." His counterpart corrected calmly.

The parlour got dark around them as John's face and clothing changed and a glass materialised in Sherlock's right hand. Distantly, he was aware of a slight dizziness in the back of his head. John's posture changed with his appearance, turning into pliant lounging rather than attentive observation.

"Anytime." He drawled.

"What?"

"That's what you said when I touched your knee. When I told you _I don't mind_."

"You didn't hear it." Sherlock said dismissing the information.

"Not important. You were brave enough to say it. That's the point. Your heart rate was elevated. The room seemed brighter all of a sudden because your pupils dilated so much with that simple touch. He meant it. At least in that moment. And if you hadn't been so drunk you would still know how often he licked his lips that evening."

"It was a good one." Sherlock said smiling to himself.

John gave him a soft smile as the world around him dissolved yet again.

Sherlock felt his heart clench painfully in his chest. He was standing on the narrow stage, violin in hand, watching John and Mary on the dance floor. It felt like dying, having to endure this a second time. Beside him, John was a constant reminder that this was merely a review. His hat, clothing and even the mustache comfortingly out of place in Sherlock's time.

"For a second I hated your offspring. Less than a second, I'd say." Sherlock shook his head as if to shake off the feeling itself. "When I told you, I watched your reaction but I was too hurt to understand the change of emotion on your face. This whole wedding business…. "

"I was not all that happy. It frightened me. And it meant that all we had was lost." John said, taking his hand and entwining their fingers while they watched the painful memory replay.

"Looking back, I realize we felt the same way. When you touched my neck, John… It hurt even more." At that the doctor squeezed his hand prompting him to turn away from the scene and revert to Baker Street. Standing only a few inches apart, their eyes locked.

"What do you see, Sherlock?" The detective studied every minute detail on the expressive face opposite him, his own features softening with every passing second. Yes, he preferred his doctors clean shaven.

"Lips slightly parted. Moist from repeatedly being licked." He sighed audibly. "Pupils dilated and blinking ratio decreased to a minimum. Respiration increased by 30 per cent. Increased body heat indicated by minor blush." He took a deep breath before he touched the face in front of him.

"I should have acted on that before it was too late." He whispered bitterly, dragging his thumb over John's lower lip and biting his own.

"Do it now." Was the mumbled reply.

It was ridiculous. Letting himself go like that and feeding his own desire by kissing this John. But he did it anyway. And while he was at it, why not touch the rest of him, too. Sherlock let his hands wander over the doctor's back and sides before he pulled the smaller man in a strong hug.

Resting his chin on John's head and relishing the feeling of the soft short hair and warm breath on his skin, Sherlock realized that even in his own head he couldn't say what he'd meant to say for over three years.

"You don't have to say anything." John said into his shoulder.

"I wish I could tell you." Sherlock admitted quietly, a familiar stinging in his eyes.

* * *

 _Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

John was really bad with stuff like this. Bad in a way that had fucked up every relationship throughout his whole life. And damn, if he wasn't fucking up horribly right this instant. One moment he had been sitting beside Sherlock on the floor, eavesdropping. And the next he found himself entwining their fingers and whispering into the detective's ear, actually bleeding encouraging the man's line of deduction.

Sherlock was looking devastated only seconds after John had intervened. _Congratulations!_

John wanted to run. He wanted to leave before Sherlock found out what he'd done and they both felt miserable. There was a bigger problem at hand, though. Sherlock's eyes were still closed and he was still not moving anything else but his mouth. The restless mumbling had set in again and this time John didn't understand a word for Sherlock had switched to French. He knew John was there.

Forcing himself to focus, John began to tap his finger against Sherlock's wrist.

* * *

"Ce n'est pas possible." Sherlock was pacing up and down a dark alley. He felt the cold rain running down his face. He was soaked. Shivering, he hugged himself against the bone deep iciness that had overcome his body.

"Non!" He yelled into the darkness. "Mon Dieu, non." He added quietly.

A mistake. Such a horrible mistake with which he had very likely destroyed the only thing that had kept him wanting to be alive for two consecutive years.

John was out there. John, who had had the shock of his live just now with the small glimpse of Sherlock's mind he'd gotten.

"Concentre-toi!" There had to be a way out of this. If Sherlock could only focus. But this noise… This horrible knocking…. It's rhythm had him on edge. He pulled his shoulders up as far as he could in a vain attempt at covering his ears while still protecting his body against the cold.

It was no use. The knocking seemed to get louder and louder. It's rhythm repeating itself over and over again.

* * *

"Come on, Sherlock!" John whispered into the mumbling man's ear. "Listen!" Cross-legged on the floor, he was pressing his shoulder into the detective's chest and tapping urgently against the hand he had pulled onto his thigh.

* * *

"Non, jamais!" Sherlock's mind was racing to drown out the booming that seemed to be coming from the scaffolding beside him. He didn't want to know. Didn't need anyone's pity. Wouldn't be able to bear pity if it came from John.

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Kneeling in ankle-deep water, he pressed his head hard between his hands and concentrated on the periodic table. The decomposition degree of human skin. The complexity of Dvorak's work. The solar system. John.

N

O

T

"Je ne veux pas ça. Je ne veux pas comprendre!" He yelled against the increasing noise of metallic booming that seemed to surround him now. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do but to crawl in on himself and try to outlast.

* * *

"Come back to me, Sherlock!" John said worriedly before pressing a hesitant kiss onto the madman's temple.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes shot open. He was sitting in his chair wearing his dressing gown and had his hands folded in his lap. Across from him, John smiled under his mustache.

"It's time." He stated contently.

"I know." Even in the quiet of their parlour, Sherlock's voice was almost inaudible.

"He's waiting for you. He has been for a long time."

"As I for him." Sherlock conceded. His heart was beating wildly in his chest and made itself known through the forceful throb of his pulse in his fingertips.

"Take a deep breath and close your eyes. 5…."

Sherlock wriggled his toes and balled his hands into fists.

"4…."

He was distantly aware of a numbness in his back and thighs.

"3…"

His stomach gave an impatient growl and his face felt wet.

"2…"

Tap, tap, tap against his wrist.

"1. Now, Sherlock!"

 _Not Leaving. Ever._

* * *

"Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?" John's voice pushed through the fogginess surrounding the consulting detective's mind. He felt himself being pushed backwards until he rested on the rugged floor. John's fingertips pressed against his neck before they vanished and Sherlock heard retreating steps.

He forced his eyes to open. Light was coming from the kitchen and illuminating the floor around him. His hands pushed into the soft surface of the carpet beneath him as he took a quick inventory of his physical condition.

Before he could prioritise his needs he was pulled up to a stand and held there by strong hands.

"Loo. Hydration. Nutrition. Understood?"John's voice was firm but laced with worry as Sherlock stared unseeing into his face. "Come on." The doctor said before he walked his taller patient carefully towards their bathroom.

"Will you manage or should I help?" John inquired seriously.

"Alone." Sherlock mumbled, not actually sure he would be able to stay upright but completely certain that he didn't want John to help him. Cautiously he forced his spine to stiffen and his knees to tense while he pushed past John. Stumbling, he entered the bathroom and fell back against its door.

After hearing the shower being turned on and being sure that Sherlock didn't pass out from the initial shock of hot water to his system, John had deemed it necessary to get the Detective to eat and rest. Preferably without someone interfering with the, no doubt soon to be, awkward mood that would inevitably lead to an even more awkward evaluation of Sherlock's self-exploration and John's snooping/ interruption/ encouragement.

The loud bang from the bathroom prompted John to hurry up the stairs, carefully balancing the tray with sandwiches he had begged Mrs. Hudson to prepare. Of course, there hadn't been much begging necessary. It had been particularly difficult to convince her of staying downstairs for the rest of the evening, though.

Before John had the chance to panic and kick in the bathroom door, Sherlock stepped out of his room. He was still looking somewhat rumpled but some color had started to return to his face and he had changed into a faded shirt and pyjama pants. Relieved, John put the tray down on the kitchen table and made to prepare a strong Earl Grey for both of them.

Awkward was an understatement. John was fidgeting the whole time and Sherlock left his gaze lowered to the table. While they were eating neither of them said a word. John kept refilling their glasses of water but didn't dare ask how Sherlock felt and the detective drank them down in one go, every time. When there was nothing left of the sandwiches and both of them had already had 2 cups of tea, John cleaned the table and then gestured for Sherlock to go into the parlour. Stiffly, the detective sat down on the couch and waited for the doctor to join him.

To calm both their nerves, John brought a plate with biscuits which he placed in front of them.

Cautiously, John sat down right beside Sherlock on the couch. For a few minutes they sat silently, both nibbling their biscuits in an attempt to keep mouths and hands busy.

"So…" John prompted.

"John." Sherlock replied, feigning ignorance and trying unsuccessfully for his usual demeanour.

"You know... I don't mind." John told his hands. " Quite contrary." He added shyly looking up through his lashes.

There is a time for running and then there are times where one has to face danger in order to win something of great value.

Hesitantly, John put his hand on Sherlock's which was resting at his side on the couch.

Without looking up, the consulting detective laced their fingers together. Feeling his anxiety dissipate, Sherlock leant back into the couch and, closing his eyes, took a deep breath.

John followed his example.

Minutes ticked by as they adjusted to their new reality. It was, quite frankly, frightening. A decision had been made that evening. Finally acknowledging the elephant in the room had forced them to cross a line, and they were both at a loss as to how to proceed.

John shuffled a bit closer. Erasing the space between them, he pulled their joined hands onto his thigh and smiled to himself when he felt Sherlock's head on his shoulder.


End file.
